Early Hours
by HootsMon
Summary: John finally reaches the end of his rope, and figures out how to shut up the violin. Sherlock/John friendship, may eventually move to something more.
1. Chapter 1

"For God's sake, Sherlock!"

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, but a small smile graced his lips as footsteps pounded down the stairs from the bedroom above.

He remained standing by the window, drawing his bow lightly across the violin strings, swaying slightly as each note pierced the chilly air. The music, improvised and changing, reverberated around the room, groaning and sobbing and cheering and roaring as he saw fit.

"Sherlock, I'm begging you here, it's two o'clock in the morning. Please stop."

Sherlock sniffed haughtily and threw a few high pitched notes in his roommate's direction, smiling inwardly as John huffed and shifted his weight to his other foot; a clear sign of agitation.

"Sherlock, I have work in the morning. I have to be up in…four hours, God…" John trailed off as he rubbed his face with his hands and leant against the wall.

"If you desire sleep, John, simply block me out," Sherlock said over his shoulder, pausing in his music.

"Block you out? Seriously?" John sputtered. "You do realize how loud you're being? I tried earplugs, you know. Didn't help."

"It's a simple mental process, John. Basic enough for even your one-track mind, surely." He smiled thinly at John's blurry reflection in the window. "Though your inability to sleep with anything but complete silence is, frankly, worrisome."

"This coming from the man who needs everyone to stop thinking just so he can focus."

Sherlock finally turned to glare at him. "I require absolute silence to make the mental connections in the most complicated of cases, John. I really doubt anything that you ever do will be as complex."

"Oh, yeah, thanks," John muttered, stifling a yawn. "Surgery is as easy as blowing bubbles."

"Don't be dramatic," Sherlock growled, turning back to the window and letting loose a string of angry notes that bounced against the glass and screamed across the room. "Surgery is simple compared to what I do."

"Simple?" John scoffed in disbelief. "You think surgery is…simple? You think cutting people apart and stitching them back up is… is fucking easy? You think that holding people's body parts together with your own fingers while they're bleeding all over you is fucking easy? You think having someone's life in your hands is fucking easy?" He was yelling by the time he was finished, his hands clenched into fists at his side, his breath coming quick and unsteady.

Sherlock smirked at him, swinging his bow lazily through the air. "Surgery is planned and anatomy doesn't change. You know exactly what you'll find depending on where you cut. My line of work takes me into the unknown. Your job doesn't involve solving any mysteries, you simply follow a pattern. Dull." He punctuated his last word with a particularly violent swish of the bow before spinning back to the window and quickly sawing out an aggressive progression of angry sharps.

"Sherlock, you-" John pursed his lips and glared at the floor, breathing deeply. When he'd gotten himself slightly under control, he continued, his voice slightly strangled. "Sherlock, my job is difficult, and important. People trust me with their lives. If I'm exhausted at work, people might die."

Sherlock ignored him, playing quickly through the minor scales, higher and higher.

"Sherlock…Sherlock, just once, please listen to me."

Sherlock frowned and switched to major keys, the ironic, cheery notes bouncing about the room.

"Fine. That's it. That's fucking it." John muttered. He walked straight across the room to Sherlock, who turned with a slight smile on his face, prepared for another argument.

What he wasn't prepared for was for John to reach out, pluck his bow from his hand, and snap it cleanly in half over his knee.

Sherlock's mouth fell open in uncharacteristic, total shock. He stared at John's retreating figure in complete disbelief, which was quickly replaced with outrage.

"You broke my bow!" he roared at John, slamming his violin back into its case and storming after the shorter man.

"Good deduction, that," John calmly called over his shoulder as he mounted the stairs.

"You…you…" Sherlock sputtered angrily from behind him, "you…you broke my bow!"

"Getting repetitive there, Sherlock," John commented from his bedroom door before slamming it in the consulting detective's face.

John grinned to himself as he climbed back into bed, and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

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><p><strong>AN: No idea how long this piece will end up being, but a chapter two is definitely forthcoming. Reviews would be lovely! **


	2. Chapter 2

John's alarm dragged him into consciousness at exactly 6 AM, the earliest possible time to wake up that could still be considered decent. He yawned widely and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, arching up off the bed. As he blearily fumbled his way into his trousers and pulled a porridge colored jumper over his head, his thoughts were focused solely on the bread that was waiting for him downstairs, just begging to be shoved into the toaster and slathered with as much jam as he could possible pile on it. He was still pondering whether to go with strawberry or raspberry when he emerged into the living room, and consequently almost missed the odd bundle on the sofa. He couldn't help but be slightly proud that he'd noticed it at all, unobtrusive as it was. Apparently, Sherlock's skills of deduction were rubbing off on him. Frowning slightly, he approached the couch, fully expecting something gruesome, like a cat's spine, or, God forbid, a human's. His heart dropped into his stomach when he realized what it actually was.

A broken violin bow.

John stared at the sad little object, his appetite replaced by deep, freezing guilt. Last night….he groaned aloud and pressed his palms hard into his eyelids, mentally cursing himself. He'd broken Sherlock's bow. How could he possibly have been… _insane_ enough to break Sherlock's bow? Sure, it had been late…really terribly late…and he had been awfully tired and Sherlock was being…well, Sherlock…but to break his bow…. It was painfully obvious how close Sherlock was to his violin. John supposed the act he'd committed was comparable to killing a neighbor's noisy cat.

John closed his eyes, and scrubbed at his face with his hand, trying to think. Obviously, he'd apologize. Obviously. Why would he not? It's not as if he didn't know Sherlock played violin at odd hours, this wasn't exactly the first time it had happened. And he knew how Sherlock was. He sighed deeply and turned towards the kitchen.

"Sherlock?" he called quietly. No answer. He cautiously poked his head around the corner, but the room was empty of lanky consulting detectives. John pursed his lips, then turned towards Sherlock's bedroom. Maybe his (_violence, vandalism, uncontrollable rage_) outburst had somehow actually forced some sense into the man, and he'd decided to try to get some sleep. John almost snorted despite himself, and had the situation not been quite so dire, probably would have laughed for days at the idea of Sherlock with common sense.

John quietly knocked, then pressed his ear to the door. "Sherlock?" he called, a little louder than before. No answer. "Sherlock, you in there?" Still no answer. Sulking, probably. In a corner. That would definitely be dramatic enough for him. On a whim, John tried the doorknob, and was surprised to find that the door was unlocked. He paused, chewing on his lip. Breaking into his roommate's bedroom was surely adding insult to injury…

"Sherlock? If you don't answer, I'm coming in," he called out. When he again received no answer, he shoved aside his scruples, pushed the door open, and peered into the room.

The second thing he noticed was that the room was very clean, at complete odds with the rest of the house. He couldn't help but be a little annoyed that Sherlock only flung his mess about in the area he was forced to share. The first thing he noticed was the lack of Sherlock.

John checked his the time on his phone. 6:45. It wasn't unlike Sherlock to be up and about by this time, but usually he'd stick around to at least tell John he was leaving, and if not that, he'd have left him a text. Wait…he did a double take at his phone, then cursed loudly. 6:45. Sarah was not going to be pleased with him.

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><p><strong>AN: Sorry this chapter's so short! I wanted to put out another chapter before a week since the last. **I've been a little overwhelmed by all the people who've alerted this story. It's incredible, don't get me wrong! I'm amazed that people are actually reading this, but at the same time it's a lot of pressure! But a lovely fluffy pressure that smells of cotton candy and sunshine.****


	3. Chapter 3

Once John had finally secured a cab (which took a full seven minutes; without Sherlock's imposing figure at his side, cabbies always seemed to look right through him), he pulled out his phone and opened a blank message, but he paused with his fingers poised over the keys.

He didn't want to apologize via text message. He'd never really been fond of texting, especially when it came down to relaying important information, and anyway, he really doubted Sherlock would accept anything short of a full blown, down-on-his-knees, praising-the-ground-he-walked-on apology. He pursed his lips, quickly tapped out "_Where are you?" _and hit the 'send' key before turning to watch London fly passed his window.

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><p><em>Sherlock? Where are you?<em>

_Answer me, Sherlock._

_Seriously, Sherlock, answer me._

_Sherlock, please answer. Where are you?_

_Sorry to bother you, Greg, but Sherlock hasn't been by, has he?_

_ Not today. Lost him?  
>-GL<em>

_Yeah, haven't seen him all day._

_ Time to tighten the leash?  
>-GL<em>

_Very funny._

_ Happy Hunting.  
>-GL<em>

_Sherlock, for Christ's sake just tell me where you are._

_Don't think I won't get the police involved, Sherlock. Answer your damn phone._

John stared down at the screen, chewing on his lip. Today hadn't been a very busy one, which unfortunately had given him plenty of time to work himself into a frenzy. Four hours, seven sent messages (countless more drafted and deleted), and still no response from Sherlock. John spun in his chair to face the window, staring down at the street, unconsciously searching for a familiar figure. Surely if Sherlock was in trouble, someone would have been in touch with him. Sherlock himself, or much more likely, Mycroft.

He frowned unseeingly at the bright red awning of the building opposite, weighing pros and cons in his head, before sighing resignedly and reaching for his phone again.

_Where's Sherlock?_

_ Lost track of him, have you? Pity.  
>-MH<em>

_Just tell me where he is._

_ He's been at Baker Street for the past three hours and fifty seven minutes.  
>-MH<em>

John groaned aloud and grabbed his coat, shoving his arms through the sleeves as he charged out of his office. He yelled something to the front desk about family emergency, had to run, and after another battle with the London cabbies, was on his way back to the flat.

Three hours and fifty seven minutes. John had left Baker Street at around 6:55 that morning, making him a good half hour late for work, and it was now just after eleven. Sherlock had arrived back home minutes after John had left, and John didn't for one second believe it was a coincidence.

John tossed some bills in the cabby's direction and hurried up the steps to the flat.

"Sherlock!" he called as soon as he was through the door, unable to stop himself from slamming it behind him. There was no answer, but John could hear someone moving around in the kitchen. He stalked towards the doorway and glared at the back of the tall man who was currently facing away from him, bent over a microscope.

"Sherlock, I've been texting you all day, please tell me why in God's name you've been ignoring me. And you better have a really fantastic reason," John added, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame. Sherlock's only answer was to fiddle with the sight adjustment on his microscope.

Now that he knew Sherlock was safe, guilt was starting to worm it's way back into his stomach. John stared at his flatmate for a moment before dropping his gaze and straightening his back.

"Sherlock...I'm sorry about your bow. I was…stupid and acted out of anger, and I—" he broke off as Sherlock suddenly stood and swept past him, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

"…Sherlock?" John followed him into the living room. Sherlock had flopped down onto the sofa, glaring up at the ceiling. John slowly sank in his armchair and tried not to stare at the man. The silence stretched on as John drummed nervously on his knees and Sherlock did nothing.

"Busy day?" John asked, breaking the silence. Sherlock didn't respond.

"…how's the, uh…the thing, experiment in the kitchen going? I saw you had some tongues the other day. Having, uh… fun with that?" John tried again, but to no avail. Sherlock's eyes were locked on the ceiling, his fingers steepled, indexes just touching his nose.

John pursed his lips in annoyance. While Sherlock would often go for long periods of time ignoring what John had to say, the man would never dream that anyone might not want to listen to him. He talked to John almost constantly, not caring if John replied or not, going so far as to not realize when he wasn't even there to listen. Suddenly, John's eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he realized was what going on.

"Sherlock, are you…are you giving me the silent treatment?" he asked, leaning towards the man, fighting down a smirk.

Sherlock suddenly sighed heavily before flinging himself dramatically from the sofa and stalking back into the kitchen, making a point to turn towards John and stare directly over his head with an incredibly forced nonchalant expression as he passed. John couldn't contain it anymore, and burst into laughter, clutching his sides and wheezing slightly.

"Seriously, Sherlock? You're a grown man for God's sake!" John finally managed to choke out, wiping tears from his eyes. He was answered by the sounds of various science equipment being smacked about much louder than necessary, followed by a crash of what sounded like the pots and pans being hurtled into the sink from across the room. When Sherlock left the kitchen moment later in a flourish of blue dressing gown and 'casually' flounced his way into his bedroom, John watched with amused eyes before reaching for his laptop. His blog most definitely needed updating.

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><p><strong>AN: I love reading your reviews, because they're about split between "Sherlock's a right prat and completely deserved it" and "holy crap John's such a douche poor baby Sherlock". Oh, you guys. **


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm making tea, do you want some?" John called from the kitchen, already pouring out a second cup. There was no answer from the sitting room, but he hadn't really expected one. John piled four spoonfuls of sugar in Sherlock's cup, none in his own, and no milk because they were, once again, out. He carried both mugs out into the living room, placed his own on the arm of his chair, and waved Sherlock's in front of the detective's nose. The man didn't flinch, eyes closed, fingertips pressed to his lips, elbows on knees. John sighed and placed the cup on the sofa arm. "Drink it, please?" he asked as he settled into his chair, opening the paper. Of course Sherlock wouldn't drink it. He only touched food when he was too distracted to notice John surreptitiously leaving sweets about, or when he was trying to coax John into doing something that usually involved explosions and an awful lot of running. John cleared his throat loudly and tried to focus on the paper.

He was halfway through a story about the government fighting the rising price of chocolate when Sherlock's phone rang from the mantelpiece. Instantly Sherlock was on his feet, flying across the room. John watched from over his paper as Sherlock glanced at the caller id and grinned widely before tapping the answer key.

"Lestrade," he intoned, sounding bored. John sat up and set his paper aside. A case was exactly what Sherlock needed to get his mind off of…things. God knows some fresh air would do him good.

Sherlock listened intently for a few moments, fiddling with the knife embedded in mantelpiece as John watched him in the mirror, noting the slight furrow in his brow, a good sign.

"I'm on my way," Sherlock said before thrusting his phone into his pocket and rushing to the door, grabbing his coat as he went. John jumped to his feet and hurried after him, his shorter legs not able to leap down the stairs as Sherlock's did. The cab nearly left without him, just pulling away from the curb as he stumbled into the vehicle, throwing Sherlock an angry look that the taller man apparently didn't notice.

The ride was a quiet one. John glanced at Sherlock a few times, but as the detective was engrossed in his phone for the entire ride, fingers tapping away at a furious pace, John settled back into his seat with a sigh and stared out at the streets of London until they arrived at a slightly shabby house, the bright yellow police tape adding a gaudy affect to the already gaunt establishment. Sherlock bolted as soon as the cab slowed, leaving John to pay the uninterested driver and hurry off towards the house, noting with annoyance the slight twinge in his leg.

Sherlock was already crouched over the prone form in the corner of the room, studying the woman's fingertips with intense interest, her frankly appalling multi colored outfit contrasting sharply with his long black coat. Lestrade nodded to John from the other side of the room, deep in what sounded like a heated argument over his mobile, gesturing frantically to Sally, who appeared to be taking notes.

John winced slightly as he lowered himself to one knee beside the body. "So what have you got?" he murmured, frowning down at the woman. She was pretty, long blonde hair splayed about her slender face, and clearly quite young, early twenties perhaps. He slipped on the gloves that were handed to him by a harried looking officer and carefully lifted her head, peering first into one eye, then the other. "Probably not asphyxiation," he said, gently brushing her hair to one side. He stopped when he noticed two small pinpricks just above her collarbone, marring the pale skin of her shoulder. "Sherlock, did you…" he started, but as he glanced up, he realized he was alone beside the body, the detective busy fiddling with a heating vent on the other side of the room.

"He's gotten bored with you, then?" Sally quipped from overhead, and John pursed his lips before forcing himself to his feet, staggering a little as his leg threatened to give out. He pushed off her steadying hand on his arm and glared at her. "He's not bored, he's…distracted," he snapped, and she smirked at him, but he turned and stomped off before she had a chance to bite back.

The pretty young officer standing in the kitchen proved good company, and John was able to focus almost entirely on their conversation as Sherlock bounced about the room behind him, delivering scathing insults and vital information simultaneously. It was only when the officer was giggling over one of his university stories that he noticed a silence in the room, and when he turned, he realized Sherlock wasn't there.

"Who? Oh, the tall fellow?" she asked, cocking her head slightly at his inquiry. "He left a while ago. Thought you noticed." She frowned up at him, and rested a hand tentatively on his own. "Is everything ok?" she asked, batting her eyelashes slightly.

"Yeah, it's…fine, it's fine," he mumbled, brushing her off gently before making his way over to Lestrade, not nothing her crestfallen expression as he limped away. The DI was still on his phone, back to the room, one hand braced against the wall as he shouted into his mobile. John tapped on his shoulder, then took a quick step back as Lestrade spun to face him.

"For the last time, Anderson, do the bloody—oh. Sorry, mate, thought you'd left." Lestrade gave him an apologetic smile and cupped a hand over his phone.

"Yeah, I uh…when…when did Sherlock leave?" John asked

"Uh…" Lestrade glanced quickly at his watch. "About half an hour ago. Did he not tell you?" he asked, looking slightly confused.

"You know how he is when he's on a case," John tried to joke. Lestrade smiled slightly and glanced at his phone.

"Yeah, I do…hey, if you wait a moment, I can give you a ride back to Baker Street."

"No, no it's fine. I'll catch a cab. I should stop by the shops anyway," John said, already backing towards the door. Lestrade nodded, turning his full attention rather wearily back to his phone.

John ignored Sally's pointed smirk as he walked past her, his leg twinging unsympathetically as he trudged down the path. To his great surprise, a cab appeared as soon as he stepped to the curb, and he gratefully clambered into the back seat, rubbing his knee absentmindedly as the cabbie started yammering on about the weather and soap stars and the clouds he'd see that day, oblivious to John's wandering mind. He happily wished the doctor a pleasant evening when he dropped him off at the corner shop half a block from 221B to grab a carton of milk, and with a sudden stroke of inspiration, a small carton of strawberries. Having Sherlock's one edible weakness on hand definitely couldn't hurt.

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><p><strong>AN: So I pretty much feel like a terrible person. I'm sorry it's taken so long to update, and I'm sorry this chapter is so boring! I wish I could say that I'll have the next chapter up soon, but I just got a job, so I have no idea how much time I'll have to write. What I can say is that I do know where this is going, at least. All my apologies. Take them. Please.**


	5. Chapter 5

The flat was quiet when John limped his way through the door, pausing to wince and lean heavily against the wall before straightening his back and walking into the living room. Sherlock was seated on the sofa, dozens of papers messily spread out on the cushions beside him and overflowing onto the floor. John stood awkwardly in the doorway.

"Got you something," he said finally, holding up the shopping bag. Sherlock's only response was to mutter something about venom in the circulatory system and rifle through his papers. "I'll just…pop them in the fridge, then. When you're done, you can…they're strawberries, I know you…nevermind," John finished wearily, turning to the kitchen. He flipped on the light and froze, his eyes widening in shock.

"Damnit, Sherlock!" he thundered, dropping the shopping bag to the floor, ignoring the strawberries as they escaped from their flimsy plastic container to roll merrily about the room. "What the hell is this?"

The kitchen table was crowded full of mugs, all of John's coffee mugs and a fair few of Sherlock's own, as well as the tea pot, the kettle, a few bowls and the wine glasses that Harry had gotten John one Christmas. Every single one was filled with…something. Something horrifying.

John stumbled to the table, his mouth hanging open in shock as he stared down at the slowly bubbling blue mass in his favorite orange mug. The green slime in the tea pot was smoking slightly. The wine glasses now housed an impressive collection of eye balls.

"Sherlock, I…"John sputtered angrily all the way into the living room, where Sherlock was still staring at his papers, though now with a very defined smirk on his face.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock, I drink out of those!" John finally shouted, his fists quivering slightly at his sides.

Sherlock made a grand show of flipping over a piece of paper.

John turned back to the kitchen and raised his hand to his mouth, surveying the damage with wide eyes.

"Yeah ok. I'm not dealing with this now," he finally muttered, rubbing his face. Without another word he turned and headed upstairs, leaving an unsmiling Sherlock to flick through his papers in peace.

Ten o'clock the next morning found John once again staring at the disaster zone of a kitchen. Sherlock was still planted firmly on the couch, though he'd been flat on his back, staring at the ceiling since John had come downstairs. The strawberries had still littered the floor, and John had been almost relieved to tidy them up, as none of them where smoking or bubbling or in any other way threatening him. The mugs he was frankly afraid to touch. He edged his way around the table to the bread bin and was relieved to find the bread intact and (as far as he could tell) disease free, so he set about making himself some jam and toast, silently bemoaning his lack of morning beverage. With a sigh, he settled back against the kitchen counter and took a large bite of his strawberry slathered toast, only to find himself suddenly gagging and spitting into the sink. He gripped the edge of the counter tightly as he struggled to regain a semblance of composure before turning and stalking into the living room.

"Morning, Sherlock," he announced cheerily, sauntering over to his armchair and casually leaning over the back. "Get any sleep last night, then?"

Sherlock blinked slowly.

"No, I don't suppose you did, did you," John continued. "Busy, hm. Much too busy pouring biohazardous waste into all of my mugs and dumping pounds of salt into my jam, I mean, honestly Sherlock!"

John moved around to the front of his armchair and collapsed into it, scrubbing his face with his hands before peering dejectedly through his fingers at his silent roommate. He wanted to be angry. He had no idea what was festering in his mugs, and his jam was now completely inedible, but Sherlock choose that moment to heave a small sigh and John's resolve was lost.

"Look, Sherlock…" John leaned forward and tried to catch the man's eye, but Sherlock remained gazing at the ceiling. "I was wondering if…maybe you'd like to go to the shops today…with me…we could look at bows, perha-" John cut off as Sherlock suddenly turned his head and stared directly at John for the first time in days. John stared back, completely taken aback by the look of fury being directed at him. Sherlock rose slowly from the sofa until he was towering over John, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists, then suddenly spun on the spot and disappeared into his bedroom, the door slamming shut with such force that the windows shook. After a few minutes John silently rose and began cleaning out the kitchen (with rubber gloves and a bucket of strong bleach), but when he finally gave in to exhaustion and climbed up to his bedroom late that night, Sherlock had yet to emerge.

When John blearily opened his eyes the next morning, squinting through the sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window, the last thing he expected to see was a pair of beady eyes staring back down at him.

He gave a strangled yelp and flung himself onto his side, only to be met with another pair of eyes inches from his own. He lurched backwards with another yell and promptly fell out of bed.

He wheezed from the hardwood floor, completely winded and more than a little terrified. He cautiously hoisted himself to his elbows to peer up over the bed, one hand already reaching for his gun, when he froze in shock.

There was a dead rabbit in his bed.

He stared at it. It stared back. Without moving, he flicked his eyes upward to the dead opossum that had been suspended from his ceiling upside down, jaws grinning grotesquely at his pillow.

He glanced to his left, where a dead deer was perched next to his dresser, gazing out the window with a solemnity only reserved for the taxidermied.

John closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose for a few seconds before hoisting himself to his feet. He counted five more dead animals before he'd even reached his bedroom door, which he wrenched open with a vengeance.

"Sherlock!" he roared as he tramped down the stairs, the floorboards groaning loudly under his thundering feet. He stomped his way to the living room and glared in at his roommate, chest heaving.

The offending detective didn't move from his position on the couch, eyes closed, fingers pressed to his lips. John stared at him, seething, the man's silence only serving to make him angrier.

"Sherlock, there is a dead fucking rabbit in my bed!" John yelled, his knuckles white where he was gripping the door frame. "There's a fucking opossum hanging from my fucking ceiling! Where… I…where did you even get an opossum?" he sputtered.

Sherlock sighed, swung himself up off the couch and started towards his own room, but John was quick to plant himself directly in the way. Sherlock immediately changed direction towards the kitchen, only to find the way blocked by a scarlet faced army doctor. He huffed through his nose, turned his eyes towards the ceiling, and froze, standing still in the middle of the room.

"Sherlock," John tried to say calmly. The detective blinked slowly but didn't look down.

"Sherlock," John said less calmly. The detective didn't blink at all.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, not even trying to be calm. "Stop staring at the fucking ceiling!"

A small smile tugged at the edge of Sherlock's mouth for only a split second, but long enough for John to catch.

"Ha!" he shouted, thrusting a finger up into Sherlock's face. "You just smiled, you reacted to me, so _logically_ you CAN hear me." Sherlock blinked slowly again.

John brought his hand down and used it to scrub at his face.

"Sherlock, it's been a week. Can we drop this now, please?" he asked, looking up at the man through his fingers, aware that his request made it sound painfully like he was pleading.

Sherlock did nothing.

John stared at the bottom of Sherlock's chin, face slowly growing redder as his flatmate continued to deny his existence.

"Fine," he hissed, stepping away from the man, who immediately turned his head to gaze happily out the window. "Fine, you don't want me here, I get it." He turned on his heel and marched back upstairs to his room, avoiding the eyes of his grisly companions as he pulled on a pair of trousers and a jumper. He paused at his doorway to take a breath, staring hard at the floor. Fine. If this was what Sherlock wanted….fine. It was fine. All fine. He straightened his shoulders before heading back downstairs.

He wrenched open the front door, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. Sherlock had moved to the window and was gazing down at the street, hands in his pockets of his robe, looking for all the world as if he were bird watching.

"Sherlock…" John started, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "Look, I'm really sorry about your bow. I know it was a…a dick move on my part, and I'm…I'm sorry. But I'm getting really tired of apologizing. I offered to buy you a new one, you ignored me." He stared down at his feet. "I don't know what to do to fix this, so I'll just…leave you alone, then," he murmured, stepping through the door and letting it swing closed behind him, where it settled into the doorframe with what sounded an awful lot like finality.

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><p><strong>AN: Can you tell that I wrote that taxidermy bit months ago? I don't know, I just really wanted to put John in a room filled with dead animals. What can I say.  
>I'm sorry about the long wait, and I'm afraid from here on out it's just going to get longer. I move out to my first apartment in a month, then I'm trying my hand at being both a full time student and a part time worker simultaneously for the first time. If I have time to breath, I'll be lucky. This fic is in no way over! <strong>

**Reviews are to my soul as double fudge chocolate cake is to Mycroft Holmes on a Friday night. **


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